


Rose and Thorn

by theinkwell33



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dracula Influence/References, Fluff, Gardens, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Angst, Roses, Spooky, Vampire AU, Vampire Crowley (Good Omens), Vampire Hunters, Vampire-typical violence, autumn vibes, questionable coffeemaking practices, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26445604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinkwell33/pseuds/theinkwell33
Summary: Aziraphale has just inherited the old and foreboding Eastgate Castle, tucked away in the mountains. He arrives to make the place his own, armed with books, a sword, and a collection of his favorite teas. He was led to believe the place was abandoned, but that's not actually the case. Unfortunately for him, a grumpy vampire's taken up residence there already and refuses to leave.A spooky vampire AU for the Halloween season!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 161





	1. Chapter 1

Upon stepping down from the train on a sunny weekend afternoon, Aziraphale was rather surprised to find the mountain village deserted. 

He was to spend the night here before his journey up the peak, but the village sheltered itself from prying eyes, and only a few buildings were not boarded up. He’d have a hard time finding a place to sleep in these circumstances.

He eventually managed to find an inn, parsing phrases from his Italian guidebook into something resembling what he required ( _sleep, night, house, pay)_. The proprietor initially mistook this as a proposition, which he immediately dissuaded with frantic hand gestures, but eventually, she understood his true meaning and showed him to his room.

The quarters were rather cold and dusty, as if nobody had stayed there in quite some time. When he attempted to inquire about this ( _why, dust, total, empty)_ , all he could get out of the owner of the inn was that a sinister shadow was cast over the mountain. This seemed, to her at least, to explain the lack of visitors. 

Aziraphale was not satisfied by old legends. He preferred facts.

Desiring more information, and having eaten dinner on the train, he decided to spend the evening searching for a nice pastry as a guise to find out any more about the area he was to call home. He’d heard good things about the food in this region, although there was a surprising lack of meat that no one cared to explain. He was able to find a nice _maritozzi_ (luckily, baked items were a language he did speak) and ate it while wandering the small town streets.

Apparently being a newcomer in the area was rather unheard of, and by the time he’d made it to the end of the road, everyone was gossiping. They whispered as he passed, pointing at him, then up at the mountains, where the faint outline of a castle spire could be seen rising above the trees. So they knew his business.

Perhaps he ought not have been surprised. He was the inheritor of the famous Castle Eastgate and its entire fortune, though it was a complicated bequest he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved. He was not on great terms with the Eastgate family of late, but that was not to be dwelled on at the moment. 

The castle itself was shuttered and empty, as it had been for the many years it had languished, forgotten, in Aziraphale’s grandfather’s possession. The perfect place for Aziraphale, who knew very well he was inheriting exile.

The few people in the village he came across regarded him with fear and apprehension, although Aziraphale could not fathom why. He knew what he looked like: a rather cherubic man holding a pastry, not a sword. And yet, they stared. With nervous looks at the mountain, they pressed odd gifts into his palms - blessed vials of water, white roses, rosaries.

Aziraphale assured them this was unnecessary - he was merely going to clear the castle of its cobwebs and perhaps open a public library in one of the vast rooms. But something about the terror in the villagers’ eyes stuck with him long after the sun had set.

He spent a restless night in his room, for the full moon was so bright as to drench his curtainless quarters in silver splendor. He’d always been a bit of an insomniac even without the memories of the previous evening on his mind. He was far from home and there was no kitchen to sneak down to for a midnight snack and a cup of cocoa, so he stayed in bed and watched bats in the distance flutter backlit against the moon. 

He was rather glad, in the end, to see the morning sun. And he was even more glad to see the hired car pull up outside the inn shortly after breakfast to take him away from this place. 

He watched from the backseat of the luxury vehicle as the village shrank into the distance behind him. The villagers cast lilies, the flower of death, onto the road. Perhaps they thought he was attending a funeral? Ah, well. Aziraphale, who was rather stubbornly unfazed by most things, chalked it up to cultural differences, and put the matter behind him.

* * *

Castle Eastgate was built in the early fourteenth century among the Ligurian Apennines. Surrounded by massive pines and constructed with two sharp turrets that speared the clear mountain air, the place was imposing yet peaceful. Aziraphale had heard stories of its luxury and history, and very much believed them now that he could see it in person. As the car wound up the mountain roads, he could glimpse the great stone walls ahead from every angle.

It didn’t look nearly as abandoned as Aziraphale had expected - he couldn’t see any exterior damage, and the rose gardens along the side of the castle were miraculously thriving. He’d have to ask his solicitor if perhaps a good samaritan had been maintaining them.

When they finally reached the front gate, he stepped out of the car and thanked the driver, who, after reciting a prayer for Aziraphale’s soul, got into the driver’s seat and sped back down the gravel path. When the dust cleared, Aziraphale stood alone in front of his new home with naught but a shabby carpet bag and a modest trunk that held most of his belongings. He took a deep breath, let the crisp autumn air flutter against his light curls, and unlocked the door.

Inside, there was electricity, for which Aziraphale was grateful. He’d had it in his head that he’d have to sail down the dim hallways holding a candelabra aloft like some sort of Victorian lady, but the lightswitch in the corner settled that matter nicely.

It was very dark with all the windows closed and curtained, so he flicked on the light and glanced around at the majestic entryway. There was very little dust, though, which both relieved and perplexed him. He’d been led to believe the castle was in some disrepair, but perhaps someone had been hired to prepare it for him without his knowledge. As someone still not quite accustomed to having a fortune with which to acquire such services (let alone an entire castle), he was rather foggy on how one would do so.

It didn’t do well to dwell on such mysteries, so Aziraphale made his way up the grand staircase, and found the first furnished bedchamber to claim as his own. He was grateful to find the linens fresh and pressed, and after shedding his jacket and shoes, sank down onto the bed.

Perhaps he’d unpack, and then see if this mysterious castle fairy had stocked the larder as well.

He woke up in the dark four hours later, having dreamed about lilies ground into the dust and a silver, cratered moon.

* * *

A week passed. Aziraphale spent the first few days airing out a few rooms to prepare for the shipment of his prized collection of books that was set to arrive soon.

He found a disgusting collection of dead, dehydrated rats in one of the closets, but beyond that, the place was relatively well kept. The kitchen was stocked with food and appliances, and while Aziraphale had no idea how they’d gotten there, he wasn’t going to complain. He did have a written check ready for whoever his mysterious caretaker was, in case they happened to return.

He saw no one.

That didn’t mean no one was there. It was odd, and perhaps it was just Aziraphale getting paranoid in his hermitage, but sometimes he had the strangest feeling that he wasn’t alone.

It was a big castle. If someone were living there, it was...unlikely but not ridiculous to think they just hadn’t crossed paths.

And yet, the kitchen remained the one place where Aziraphale ought to have seen whoever it was by now. He spent a lot of time there, cataloging appliances, cooking creative meals, and attempting to clean out the horribly grimy coffee machine. 

Aziraphale didn’t even drink coffee, but for some reason, its grubbiness bothered him. It looked like someone had made a batch in the 1970s with potting soil, and had just left it there. No matter how clean Aziraphale left it, it was never clean when he came back to it. He had half a mind to think it was staying grimy on purpose.

He stared at it judgmentally over every morning cup of tea, glad that he had a more refined taste in his source of caffeine.

It quickly became clear that this was not the only irregularity about the castle, and even a phone call to Gabriel, his solicitor, hadn’t been enough to persuade him he was being silly. 

“I’m telling you, Gabriel, the other evening, I opened the blinds in one of the rooms, and came back an hour later to find they were closed again. All the mirrors I put in the second floor hall were gone this morning when I came up to grab my charger. And the mugs are never where I left them when I come into the kitchen for midnight cocoa. Plus, last night around two in the morning, I think I heard someone _vacuuming_.”

“Aziraphale, the place is ancient. It’s probably full of weird noises and poltergeists. Nobody’s there. I made sure they did an inspection. Funny thing though, the guy they sent never reported back. I presume no news is good news.”

Alarmed, Aziraphale perched the phone in the crook of his shoulder and slid open the curtains to the drawing room. For the second time today. “ _What_? What happened to the inspector?”

“No idea. Does it matter? Look, you’ve got yourself a castle, sunshine. Sit back, relax, enjoy it. And if it _is_ haunted or something, you’ll make a fortune in haunted tours. Anyway, Uri’s back from lunch, we’ve gotta go to a consultation. Chee-ow.” _Click_.

Without needing to consult the guidebook, Aziraphale knew three words of Italian. But he did know _Ciao_ wasn’t pronounced like that.

Was Gabriel right? It _was_ probably fine, it was probably _fine_. Nothing to worry about. And yet.

Aziraphale didn’t sleep that night, but instead listened on high alert to the wind brushing against the trees. Nothing out of the ordinary sparked his adrenaline, and yet sleep eluded him still.

At five in the morning, he decided to head down to the kitchen for a snack, opening curtains as he went, just to spite whatever ghost kept closing them. 

In the kitchen, he swung open the refrigerator to get an apple, and it wasn’t until he closed it again that he came face to face with someone on the other side of the door.

It was a tall, deathly pale man. His eyes were a curious shade of amber, with inhuman slit pupils, and his short hair was the color of a dying ember. They stared at each other in mutual surprise for a few moments, and then they both screamed. At the sight of the sharp fangs that until now had been hidden under the man’s thin lips, Aziraphale shrieked even louder, and without really thinking what he was doing, threw the apple he’d been holding.

It bounced comically off of the stranger’s forehead, but he caught it in one slim hand before it could plummet to the ground. “Ouch,” he grumbled, rubbing the spot with his other hand. “‘Zzat for?”

Aziraphale could only stare.

“What are you doing in my castle?” asked the vampire. There was no denying that’s what he was. Even as he spoke, the kitchen lights glinted off his fangs. He twirled the apple elegantly in his hand. “Didn’t think anyone was here, ‘cept me.”

Finally, the words _my castle_ reached Aziraphale’s brain, and that was all he needed to restore indignant social function. “I’ve been here an entire week.”

“And you didn’t notice me? Could’ve killed you by now. How unobservant are you?”

Aziraphale couldn't believe they were still chatting; he rather figured he'd be fighting for his life at this point, not trading barbs. This reality was...an improvement. “Oh? Like you’re any better, I haven’t exactly been quiet.”

The vampire looked affronted. “It’s a big castle! What’s your excuse?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “It’s a big castle. Big and _dark_. Would it kill you to open a window every now and then?”

“During the day? _Yes_!”

“It didn’t this whole week when I kept drawing them back,” he argued.

The vampire scowled. “So _you’re_ the one who’s been opening my curtains!”

“ _Your_ curtains? This is _my_ house-”

“-Castle.”

“It doesn’t _matter_!” Aziraphale reached up and put his hands through his curls. “I have a - a vampire squatter. In my castle.”

“Oi! I was here first. Have been for...ehh, what year is it? Eighty...one?”

“Twenty eighteen.”

The vampire swore. “Meh, I was close. Anyway. Near a century, now.”

Aziraphale adopted a reasoning expression. “Look. You don’t own the place, I do. Who even are you, anyway?”

“Crowley.”

“Ah. Well. Charmed,” he said blandly. “I’m Aziraphale, and this is my castle. There’s no reason we can’t discuss your eviction civilly.”

Crowley stared at him with those haunting eyes. “Why’m _I_ being evicted? I’ve kept the place nearly spotless.”

It was true, Aziraphale agreed silently. The castle did look nice. Nevertheless. “Because I don’t know you.”

Crowley blinked and raised one eyebrow. “You’re...you’re not even gonna...doesn’t it bother you?”

“Doesn’t _what_ bother me?”

Crowley stepped in very, very close. Somehow, his fangs looked a lot sharper at this distance. He towered over Aziraphale by a few inches, and the effect was clearly meant to intimidate. In a low voice, he said, “I am a vampire. What’s stopping me from drinking you dry right now?”

Aziraphale cast his eyes up, but not at Crowley’s ashen face. He was, instead, looking at the tiniest rays of sunrise cresting through the open window. “That,” he said, and Crowley spun around to follow his gaze.

“Sunlight,” he hissed through his teeth. He pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from his jacket pocket and shoved them on, suddenly tense.

“I’ll make a deal with you, Crowley. You don’t kill me, and I’ll _consider_ letting you stay.”

“And if I do? Drink from you?”

“You could try, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I can defend myself.” He didn’t mention the sword hidden in his trunk he’d sharpened just yesterday.

Crowley gave him an exasperated, irritated look that said, if he had the time, they would’ve argued for another hour. But Aziraphale could tell he was itching to move to the safety of the shadows, and so with a huff, Crowley stormed off to the far wing of the castle. There was the sound of curtains raking across their metal bars as the footsteps receded, and then a distant door slammed.

“He took my apple,” Aziraphale frowned after a moment of quiet.

After shaking out his nerves and taking a few deep breaths, he cooked an actual breakfast instead. If he made some extras and left them in the fridge for his nocturnal uninvited guest, he certainly didn’t mean anything by it.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Eastgate Castle, 1979 _

_ “Here’s what we’re going to do, traitor. We’ll let you stay in the castle,” Bea growled, standing over Crowley where he lay on the floor, millimeters from a beam of sunlight. In a few minutes, it’d carve into his skin unless they untied him. _

_ “We’ll let you keep your living arrangements here if you kill any humans we send to you. Understood?” _

_ Crowley couldn’t respond. He could barely breathe for fear of nudging himself into the path of the sunbeam. _

_ “We’ll know if you don’t,” said Hastur, who stood out of sight, safe in the shadows. _

_ “No more mercy releases,” added Ligur from somewhere behind Crowley’s head. “We know all about that last fellow you let escape this place. The Eastgates told us everything." _

_ Something about that statement seemed...off, but Crowley was in too much distress to think about it at the moment. _

_ “I said,” Bea said, tightening the ropes around Crowley’s wrists, “Understood?” _

_ “Understood,” Crowley gasped, and felt himself immediately pulled back to safety. The other vampires cut his bonds, and he sagged blissfully against the worn rug, trying hard not to visibly tremble. _

_ “We’ll be watching, little snake,” spat Hastur, and the three of them left the room. Crowley lay there for a long time, wondering how on earth he was going to slither out of things this time. He was surrounded by incredibly religious villages. Italy...what had he been thinking, barricading himself into a castle he could never leave? _

_ Eventually, as the sun started to creep its way forward and threatened his safe patch of darkness, he rose on shaky legs and drew the curtains closed. He propped himself up against the wall, thinking hard. He’d have to do something, but what? _

_ He spent almost an hour pacing, wearing the thin rug even more ragged under the soles of his snakeskin shoes. Sometime past sunset, he heard the front door of the castle thud shut, signifying that the coven had finally left.  _ _ He signed with relief, glad to have seen the last of them for a while, at least. _

_ Now Crowley was alone, and it was better that way. He supposed it’d be best to keep people out of the castle from now on, or die (again) trying.  _

_ He had some legend building to do. He strode to the bookshelf and perused the dusty tomes.  _ Dracula _ would do nicely, he thought. He’d always had a flair for the dramatic, he knew he could make this look good. _

_ In the years to come, he’d probably realize he did too good of a job. Most of the villagers nowadays wouldn’t let so much as a single chicken within a ten mile radius of the castle. No livestock for another fifteen miles.  _

_ What Modern Crowley wouldn’t give for a nice steak… _

_ He’d done this to himself, he supposed. Sown his own destruction, in every way that mattered. _

* * *

Eastgate Castle, Present Day

Crowley was guarding the kitchen when Aziraphale entered the following evening. He sat at one of the counter barstools, cradling a mug of something dark.

Now that Aziraphale had had some time to adjust, he was able to fully take in the vampire’s appearance without adrenaline or alarm. Crowley was wearing a very eighties ensemble of insouciant black leather with accents of deep scarlet around his throat and wrists. Hardly your suit-wearing movie vampire, but there was still an aristocratic air to the way he slouched and pushed his sunglasses up his nose. Elegant, in a better-than-you sort of way.

“I hope you’re here to apologize. Or announce you're leaving for good,” Crowley said without looking up.

“Hardly. I’m here to cook dinner.” The  _ shoo _ gesture wasn’t necessary. Aziraphale was quite good at using his tone for social cues. But Crowley didn’t rise. He merely took another sip from his mug.

“Well, ‘m not leaving.”

“Very well, then.” They held a détente silence while Aziraphale rummaged for a pan in the cupboards.

It wasn’t until he had begun sautéing some greens that Crowley resumed conversation. “Did you make extra breakfast for me?”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to not look up. “Why do you ask?”

“Well. No reason. Well, actually. Well.”

“Spit it out.”

“Not many people realize we eat actual food too. ‘S not just blood. How’d you know?”

“You’re hardly the first vampire I’ve come across.”

That got his attention. Crowley’s head rose up on his long neck, weaving with interest like a snake. He curled his fingers around his mug’s handle. “Oh?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m immortal, I’ve got loads of time.”

“Why does everyone think ‘it’s a long story’ means I’m going to  _ tell _ it?” He watched Crowley open his mouth to speak but cut him off - “ _ Don’t _ answer that, it was rhetorical.”

“Touchy,” he grumbled, and drained his mug.

“What’s…” Aziraphale couldn’t resist asking. “What’s in the mug?”

Crowley just looked at him. “You know what.”

“Make sure you clean it out thoroughly when you’re done, that’s not hygienic.”

Crowley tipped his head from side to side with a snivelly, mocking expression but didn’t argue further. He took his time washing it at the great basin sink, where Aziraphale could see him clearly from the stove. With fanfare, he deposited the clean mug to dry on a gray hand towel. With a sarcastic bow, he said, “Your majesty,” and left the room.

Aziraphale didn’t realize until after that he hadn’t asked where the blood had come from. But he’d get to the bottom of this soon enough.

He ate his dinner in relative peace, although it seemed Crowley was vacuuming again. 

He really was very clean. A good feature to have in a potential castle-mate, though they’d have to have a discussion about that coffeemaker.

Again, he saved some extras and refrigerated them, noting with quiet pride that the breakfast leftovers were gone.

* * *

The following morning, Aziraphale went on a search.

He decided to venture into what he was subconsciously referring to as Crowley’s wing of the castle. He’d avoided it at first, unsure of whether or not a bloodthirsty vampire would spring on him at any moment if he chose to cross that line. But during the day, Crowley would be as good as dead to the world. Vampires were notoriously heavy sleepers - vulnerable, if you could get into their sleeping quarters.

But that wasn’t Aziraphale’s aim. He was looking for something particular - evidence of victims. If there was anyone he needed to rescue, now was the time to do it.

If there were any victims, they were hidden well. The quarters were empty, with peeling wallpaper and dust cluttered corners. Some were not even furnished. When he reached the last bedchamber, he found himself in what was clearly Crowley’s room, because the windows had been removed entirely and replaced with wood panels to block out the sun. 

There was a gigantic four-poster bed with elaborate carved beams, and mountains of embroidered comforters and quilts. Aziraphale had expected to find a coffin of some kind with a tetchy  _ keep out _ sign, but to his genuine surprise, he found Crowley asleep in the bed, nestled under the covers with just his hair poking out.

The sight, to be honest, shamed him. Aziraphale felt instantly guilty for his intrusion. What kind of vampire slept in the open like so, without taking precautions to defend himself against some lesser Van Helsing creeping upon him with a stake? Clearly not one with anything to hide.

Eager to leave, Aziraphale hastily checked under the bed, in the closets, and in any crevices he could find, but located nobody. He rushed out and didn’t stop walking until he was back within his own room. He sat on the bed and processed what he’d seen.

If there were no hostages, then where did Crowley get his blood? Certainly not from Aziraphale’s own neck, he’d have noticed. Stranger and stranger, indeed.

* * *

The days fell into a tense but predictable pattern after that. 

Out of wariness, Aziraphale found himself spending more time awake in the night than he did during the day, so he and Crowley often intersected. They never shared a meal time, if Crowley’s mugs drying by the sink were anything to go off of, although Aziraphale made it a habit to always cook a little extra to leave in the fridge for it to disappear by the following night.

They never spoke about this arrangement, and mainly stayed out of each other’s way. When his books arrived in giant wooden crates, Aziraphale spent a few days sorting and shelving them in the rooms he’d prepared. He hoped eventually to bring down a few of the walls and make it one big library, but for now he settled for each room acting as a “wing” of books. Nature and science, supernatural arts, poetry, fiction. 

When he had finished, he emerged from his literary bubble to find that Crowley had begun some intensive work in the garden to care for the roses. They still bloomed even as October approached, and it was clearly due to Crowley’s dedication. Never was a rose garden in better shape.

Even in the dusky night air, the rose petals shone nearly pearlescent, and the scent brought Aziraphale fond memories of his childhood days in London, where a vase of roses always sat upon the table in the front room.

Crowley spent several nights, all with long hours, in the garden, and then one night, he vanished from the premises for several hours only to return with some brown paper bags just before morning. 

The kitchen was re-stocked with groceries the next time Aziraphale checked, although Crowley had mistakenly put some gardening supplies in the larder, so he took them out to the shed by the rose garden entrance, where they belonged.

At the end of the week, Crowley declared his work on the rose bushes done, and came inside grumpy and disheveled. He even hissed at Aziraphale with those sharp, sharp teeth when he attempted to engage in conversation. 

He was clearly exhausted, because he went straight to his room and didn’t come back out for several nights. His absence was noticeable, although Aziraphale had too much pride to admit he actually missed the company. It was strange how empty the place felt when he knew he was the only one puttering around. How long must Crowley have spent here by himself?

When Crowley did finally emerge around six o’clock in the evening one late September Saturday, he stumbled into the kitchen like an overworked businessman desperate for a cup of coffee. To top it off, he was clad in a silk bathrobe, hair mussed.

Aziraphale had been waiting for him with a pot of black tea, as he’d done all the previous nights the vampire hadn’t shown his face. It was brewed so strong it might as well have been battery acid. He knew vampires liked strong tastes - coffee, alcohol, bitter tea, green apples, dark chocolate, chiles. Wasn’t hard to see why.

Sure enough, Crowley regarded the tea with surprised appreciation and made a beeline for the table. Aziraphale obligingly poured some into a teacup, and Crowley downed it without waiting for it to cool.

“Thanks,” he said, seeming more awake. “You’re a life saver. Well, no. About a hundred and fifty years late on that front. But, y’know what I mean. Yard work is  _ hard  _ work.”

“It was no trouble, just tea. I’d have tried to figure out a blood situation for you, but I still don’t know exactly where you get it from.”  _ This wasn’t an interrogation _ , Aziraphale pressed that assurance into his tone. 

Of course, that  _ was _ the true intent here. He just didn’t want Crowley to know that.

“Oh, don’t worry ‘bout that.” Crowley waved a hand breezily, although there was a tightness to his face that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Got it covered. But I’ll need to do that soonish, and you probably won’t want to stick around.”

“I highly disapprove of you murdering anyone, especially me, and especially in our kitchen.”

His eyebrow ticked up at the word  _ our _ and Aziraphale cursed himself for the slip up.

“‘M not gonna murder anyone.”

There was, however, something a little worrying, a little feral in the way Crowley was eying his throat. 

Aziraphale smiled tightly. “Somehow, I don’t find that reassuring.”

Crowley put his hands over his face. “I’m too thirsty to be having this conversation right now.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “But sooner or later-”

“Please, just. Go. You really should leave the castle altogether. For your own good. But it seems at this point like you're too stubborn for that and I don't have the energy to chase you out. So just, leave the room for a bit. We can talk 'bout it later. It’s...hard to be around you like this. I’d...forgotten what it was like.”

Aziraphale rose from his chair and left the room. His foot was on the first stair when Crowley called after him. “Sorry.”

“I understand,” he said, the words echoing in the stone hallway, as hollow as they were untrue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to say hi on [tumblr!](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com/)  
> I can't promise weekly updates, but I'll do my best to stay to that schedule if I can!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale should know better than to wander around the woods alone at midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning - as with most vampire and vampire hunter stories, there is some minor violence in this chapter. No deaths, but there are some injuries and a little blood. I am not one for lots of battle details, so it's intentionally pretty vague, but just want to give the heads up just in case anyone needs the alert. <3

_ Eastgate Castle, 1872 _

_ Crowley burst through the doors and slammed them behind him, fumbling with the locks even though he wasn’t sure they’d buy him more than a few seconds. _

_ He was grateful for his inhuman speed, because he was already on the second floor landing before he heard the first blow against the doors. He made it to the room at the end of the hall before he heard the wood splinter and the thud of three sets of footsteps on the staircase. _

_ “He’s gone upstairs, follow him!” _

_ Crowley figured he had about fifteen seconds for them to locate which room he was in, so he made short work of his trap. He carefully poured something from a jug into a large bucket, which he propped above the doorjamb. Satisfied, he picked up his dagger, adjusted his cravat, and reclined in the black velvet armchair facing the door to wait. _

_ When the hunters finally barged into the room, they were first doused in the liquid from the dislodged beaker. This was followed by the sharp cries of three humans now covered in vampire venom. _

_ Even one drop had a terrible sting to it when in contact with human skin. What it did to the insides was much, much worse, as Crowley had discovered firsthand two years earlier. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but admit that it served his purposes well now. _

_ In the time the three hunters were distracted, he made short work of taking two of them out of commission. _

_ The third, however, he dared not touch with his blade. _

_ Instead, he stared at the red, raw face of Elijah Eastgate, patriarch of the very family who owned this castle. It was time to make his request. _

_ “Now that I have your attention,” Crowley said, twirling his dagger in one hand, “I need a word with you.” _

_ Elijah considered the two men lying on the ground at his feet. “I trust you just incapacitated them?” _

_ “Nothing more than minor wounds, nothing that a good physician can’t bandage up and set right within an hour.” As if to prove this, one of the men on the floor groaned. _

_ “Very well,” sighed Elijah, but he didn’t stop scowling. “If you’d killed them, we’d not even be having a discussion.” _

_ “That’s not how I operate,” Crowley said quietly. _

_ “Yes. I’ll admit you surprised me with that ambush in the forest,” said Elijah, wiping some venom from his forehead with a hiss. “Nasty piece of work, you are. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t stake you on the spot.” _

_ “Because I’m not going to harm you.” _

_ Elijah stared at him with flinty gray eyes and pointedly wiped some more venom from his face. _

_ “Anymore,” Crowley amended. “I have...a request.” _

_ “Speak it then.” _

_ “The Lucy Coven. The one that secretly enjoys your family’s hospitality. I know you dislike them. You’ve always seemed like the good Eastgate of the bunch. Wise of you not to cozy up to the Lucies, I’ll tell you that much.” _

_ “Get on with it, vampire.” _

_ “It’s Crowley, actually.” _

_ Elijah didn’t respond, his face clearly communicating that he did not care.  _

_ Crowley pressed on. “Right. Well. I’ve got an old score to settle with the Lucies. And with your family. I want you to help me do it.” _

_ “You...a vampire, are asking me, a hunter...to what, exactly? Kill them? Aren’t you part of that coven?” _

_ “Not anymore. Don’t think I ever was, really. But they don’t much like being told no. Look, I’ll tell you how and where to eradicate the coven. And then you’ll never have to expose the fact that your family took assassin jobs from vampires to build their wealth. You get all the credit, the world doesn’t have a coven of monsters preying on the innocent-” _

_ “-And you get revenge against the vampires that turned you. I understand. Rather poetic, seeing as it was my family’s fault in the first place.” _

_ Exactly. “So will you do it?” _

_ Elijah considered him for a moment, and there was a curious expression there, like relief, or perhaps approval. “You’re not like any vampire I’ve ever met.” _

_ “Yes. Well. I’m still rather new at this, but I don’t much like people who kill and think it fun.” _

_ “Maybe that’s what matters,” Elijah mused, taking out a handkerchief and attacking a stray droplet of venom before it could stray into his eye. “You’ve still got enough humanity in you. In the years to come, I urge you not to lose it.” _

_ “I hardly think that’s the reason. You don’t have to be human to have a conscience.” At least, that was what Crowley told himself. He didn’t actually know if it was true. _

_ Elijah closed his eyes for a long moment. “Between you and me, you’d be the first to feel that way.”  _

_ “So you’ll do it?” Crowley asked again. _

_ The hunter’s eyes popped back open and he chuckled mirthlessly. “Yes. On one condition.” _

_ “Anything.” _

_ “You’re going to owe my descendants a debt one day. Well, at least, the good ones. All I ask is that when they need you most, you’re here for them, to cut them from whatever ties haunt them. Just as I’m about to do for both of us.” _

_ Crowley sheathed his dagger. “You have my word.” _

_ “I hope you know what you’re doing, vampire.” _

_ “As long as none of them find out this was me, I’ll be fine.” _

_ “If they find out, you’re as good as twice dead.” _

_ “Then make sure you’re thorough,” said Crowley seriously. “And don’t die. You’re the only Eastgate I ever actually liked.” _

* * *

Eastgate Castle, Present Day

Aziraphale spent nearly all his evenings in the library he was building. It was still very dark in here, and he’d have to figure out an order to his bookshelves, but at least his volumes were all rescued from their cardboard boxes. He kept getting distracted in his efforts to make much further progress, though. He’d pick up a beloved book and would find himself standing in the same spot, still reading it an hour later.

But that was fine, he wasn’t on a deadline. And part of him was still getting used to the idea that this was his life now: puttering around an ancient, creepy castle he shared with a supernatural creature, without any real duties or obligations. It was hard to believe, but it was still true. He wondered if anyone would take his word for it.

He hadn’t told Gabriel about Crowley. 

For one thing, Gabriel hadn’t phoned at all in the past couple weeks. Perhaps he’d gotten busy with another client, or some other distraction, but Aziraphale wasn’t exactly complaining. Gabriel was a solicitor first and his brother second, and after everything that had happened between them, they weren’t exactly close.

Plus, Aziraphale wasn’t sure how the mention of a vampire would sit with Gabriel. The rest of the family thought Aziraphale was crazy enough as it was, and the last thing he needed was to give them another reason to tell him this exile was for his own good. He could almost hear Gabriel’s reaction -  _ You can’t have another breakdown, sunshine, you’re better than that. _

Aziraphale shook his head to clear away his thoughts on the subject, and realized he’d been daydreaming in front of the bookshelf, hand frozen halfway to sliding a book into place. 

“Oh, bother,” he sighed, and shelved it. “Focus, Aziraphale. Focus, you can’t go to pieces  _ again _ .”

His hands were shaking slightly, remembering past traumas he’d rather not think about. His mind had begun the telltale race to anxiety again, and his initial instinct was to pick up his sword.

It was a difficult habit to shake, so that was how Aziraphale found himself walking out onto the grounds at midnight. He made his way past the small wooden bandstand and Crowley’s rose garden until he reached the patch of woods that marked the outskirts of the property.

When he was sure he was alone, he drew his sword from the scabbard around his hip, and began to practice.

It felt good to indulge in the fluid motions, in changing his posture and the placement of his feet. He liked the feeling of being a warrior, and the legitimacy it provided when he imagined himself defending honor and purity and love against the creeping dark.

He didn’t stop going through his routines until he was warm enough not to feel the autumn chill that pricked at his skin and numbed his ears.

Having worked his feelings out of his system, Aziraphale was about to sheathe his sword and head back inside when he heard a twig snap behind him.

He spun and faced the blackness of the wood, cursing himself for not bringing a torch. There was enough moonlight to see by, but not enough to illuminate whatever was in the trees beyond.

Aziraphale decided to chalk it up to an animal passing and took a few steps back toward the grounds. But then another twig cracked, closer now. It was followed by the sound of a heavy footfall, which confirmed the presence was, in fact, following him.

“Hello?” he asked, his voice sounding far more firm than he felt. “Is someone there?”

There was no answer, but the footsteps drew closer.

Aziraphale raised his sword and swallowed. “I advise you, I am armed,” he said, glancing around the trees.

And then, with a quickness that might have surprised him if he hadn’t already been on high alert, someone in a red mask leaped out of the clearing to his left, swinging a sword of their own.

Aziraphale met it with his blade, his brain still catching up with what his body was doing from muscle memory alone. 

He grunted, using his strength to push against his blade, until his opponent lost their balance and stumbled back. Aziraphale rushed forward without hesitation, bearing down on them with a snarl. They exchanged a few parries until the stranger eventually took a wrong step back and their heel caught on a tree root. They tumbled backward, but swung their sword wildly as they went down. It sliced against Aziraphale’s forearm and he cried out in pain, but he did not stop advancing. He put his sword tip to the assailant’s chest and they froze, breathing heavily.

“Who are you?” Aziraphale demanded. “Answer me!”

The stranger pulled off their mask to reveal a riot of red curls and a familiar, sneering face. 

“Carmine?” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. A vampire hunter. “What are you doing here?”

She merely laughed, which was a pretty bold move considering where Aziraphale had aimed his sword. He raised it to her throat, but she just laughed harder.

“Oh, Aziraphale. You didn’t think I’d come  _ alone _ did you? I know well enough you won’t go down without a fight, and even if it takes all four of us, we can overpower you.”

At these words, three more figures appeared from behind the trees, with swords drawn. There was Chalk in his usual white, Samara in his skeleton mask, and Starver in all black.

Aziraphale tried to maintain steady breathing. The wound on his arm was pulsing with pain, and even though he was an excellent swordsman, he couldn’t take on the entire Four Horsemen gang at once.

“Why?” he asked. If he was to perish, he refused to perish without the full story. “Is this because of Crowley? Because he’s under my protection.”

“Who’s Crowley?” asked Chalk. “We’re here for  _ you _ .”

“But  _ why _ ?”

“You know exactly why,” smirked Starver.

“Aww no,” Carmine interrupted, reading the confusion on Aziraphale’s face. She laughed. “They didn’t tell him.”

“Didn’t tell me what?” asked Aziraphale, but the Horsemen evidently decided this was enough chatter, because they chose this moment to charge.

Aziraphale raised his sword, hoping against all hope he survived at least long enough to warn Crowley to get out of here. But as he defended blows and sustained more cuts and bruises, he knew his only chance was in fleeing, and he sprinted his way out of the forest. Even so, he knew he wouldn’t make it very far. They were relentless, and he was already losing steam.

He barely made it far enough to see the castle. But as Samara dealt a steel-toed kick against Aziraphale’s knee, he heard something. A swooping sound, like wind rushing through leaves. He was surrounded by horsemen, his head spinning, so he couldn’t see the source of the sound, but within moments, Chalky and Carmine were being pulled off of him, and being hurled through the air with inhuman strength until they landed at the entrance to the woods, where they retreated back into the shadows. Aziraphale straightened, ready to take on the new opponent, or fend off Samara and Starver. 

But before he could, the remaining Horsemen were already being hurtled unceremoniously through the air in the exact same fashion. They landed with sickening crunches, and when they rose painfully to their feet, they limped away without another word. 

Aziraphale tensed, putting weight on his leg to check if he could stand, and relaxed when he found that supporting his weight was painful but possible. His mind was nowhere near as solid. In the muted stillness that follows any battle, he felt rather off-kilter. He spun in a weary circle, looking to thank his mysterious savior.

His eyes then fell on Crowley, who stood there looking so awkward and sheepish that it was hard to believe he’d just thrown four people into the woods with his bare hands.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale gasped. “You just saved my life.”

“Don’t thank me, it’s my fault they were here. I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you-”

“I really don’t think it was because of you. They said...they said they were here for  _ me _ .”

Crowley looked baffled. “What? Nah. The coven I abandoned sends random hunters to try and get rid of me every once in a while. But I can take care of them. Their quarrel is with  _ me _ , not you-”

“-Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted, still catching his breath. “Even so. They told me they were here to kill me. They’ll be back.”

He frowned, still looking extremely skeptical. “Why would they want  _ you... _ you’re a book guy. A human book guy.” He looked skyward with those unusual eyes, musing. “Why?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.” It wasn’t a  _ lie _ , Aziraphale really didn’t know why they’d want to kill him. He did, however, have a hunch. He just really hoped it was wrong.

“Well, let’s get those wounds cleaned up. You look awful, Aziraphale.”

“You’d-?”

“Oh yeah. Don’t worry, I’m actually great with first aid.”

“You…”

“We’re not like sharks, you know. We don’t see blood and go into a frenzy. I’m all good, unless I’m already thirsty.”

“And you’re not thirsty right now?”

“Not enough for the likes of you,” Crowley said, and it didn’t sound like a lie. “Come on.”

Aziraphale’s knee was swelling rapidly, so he took Crowley’s proffered arm without protest.

They hobbled back to the castle, and Crowley was shockingly attentive. He did indeed know a great deal of first aid, and Aziraphale was bandaged, iced, and painkilled within the hour. Aziraphale, having sensed Crowley had some antiquated ideas about medicine since he was an 1870s man, imagined he'd be given herb poultice or a mysterious vampire cure for his wounds. But he was immediately embarrassed for thinking so when Crowley just handed him two Tylenol and a glass of water.

It was bizarre. How could he feel safer around a vampire than the vampire hunters who’d attacked him?

And yet, there was Crowley, fussing over his arm and then having an existential struggle over the choice between a Flintstone and Spider-Man plaster for the scrape on Aziraphale’s temple.

An unexpected emotion rose in Aziraphale’s chest, and he couldn’t meet Crowley’s eye as the vampire gently pressed the bandage to his temple with icy fingers. Spider-Man had won, in the end.

“Crowley, thank you. Genuinely. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come to my aid.”

“You’d probably have died,” he said bluntly, though a smile tugged at the corners of his thin lips.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“Yeah, was meaning to ask. What the hell were you doing with that sword? Why were you out there in the middle of the woods alone with a weapon?”

“It’s...my therapist suggested it as a way of combating my anxiety,” Aziraphale admitted. “It prevents me from dwelling on things I’d...rather not.”

“Your therapist told you to take up...sword fighting.” Crowley’s eyebrows were arched in a complicated squiggle of bewilderment.

“Yes. I’m actually rather good at it. I had lessons.”

“Mmkay. Well. I think you’ll live,” Crowley said, clearing away the discarded bandage wrappers and first aid kit.

“Why did you patch me up?” Aziraphale blurted. “I just...didn’t think you’d...want to. We’re not exactly...friends.”

“We’re almost friends. Roommates. That’s how friendships start.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“This is just to make us even. So, now we’re even. For the tea, the other day.”

“You consider saving my life an equal payment for my making you a pot of tea?” Aziraphale said slowly.

“Was good tea.”

“Be serious, Crowley.”

“I…” he put a hand to the back of his neck. He ran a tongue across his fangs, thinking. “This is just to say thanks. For not...I dunno. Killing me on the spot when you first got here. Not that you could’ve. I’m pretty strong. But, y’know. Thanks for not  _ trying _ to kill me. It’s been a long time since anyone’s seen me and  _ not _ attacked first.’

“Sure.”

“So, thanks.”

“You too.”

“Erm. What are you doing with the rest of your night?” Crowley asked. He seemed...nervous.

“Well, I can hardly move. I figured I’d probably just sit for a while. Maybe go to the kitchen. Make some cocoa.”

“Can I join you?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Of course.”

“Will you show me how to make the omelet thing you made a couple nights ago? It...it was really good.”

“I can coach you through it. I’d better not stand up for too long with this knee the way it is.”

“Sure.” Crowley nodded.

“So you liked it then? The omelet?”

Crowley couldn’t blush, but it looked like he was trying to. “Yeah. I did.”

Aziraphale gave him a triumphant grin.

* * *

They ended up in the kitchen for the remainder of the night. Crowley told Aziraphale all kinds of stories about the people he’d met in his long life, and the various escapades he went on during the early 1900s. One of them included a stolen poodle, and had Aziraphale laughing so hard he accidentally aggravated his still aching ribs.

It was very easy to revel in moments like this. It was so...comfortable to be chatting with someone, to feel safe and cared for. It was almost enough to make him forget the events of the night; they already felt like old memories, something that took place an age ago. Or happened to somebody else. 

Something still was bothering him about what the Horsemen had said, and if he was right, he’d have to tell Crowley the truth sooner or later. But tonight, he figured it’d be best to simply enjoy watching a vampire struggle to crack an egg without resorting to too much of his inhuman strength. 

So Aziraphale pushed his thoughts to the wayside and turned his mind instead to cocoa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come scream at me on [tumblr!](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone! Again, it's vampires, so this one has a bit of violence at the beginning, be warned.

_ Eastgate Castle, 1870 _

_ Crowley didn’t think his day could get any worse. After sneaking into a castle in the Italian mountains that turned out not to be empty at all, he’d been unceremoniously chucked down a flight of stairs into the cellar. There was almost no light, only three sconces lit with dripping candles. _

_ Nursing bruised limbs from his fall, he scooted back against the wall, the cold stone pressing against his back. He didn’t know how long he spent there. Long enough to search the perimeter for potential escape points and find none. He sat back down to fidget and sweat and conjugate verbs in his head. Despite his elevated anxiety, he even caught himself falling asleep a few times just from the exhaustion of staying so alert.  _

_ Eventually, though, they came for him. _

_ The cellar door creaked open and three figures descended into the shadows. _

_ The smallest one squatted down in front of Crowley where he sat and stared at him with unsettlingly dark eyes. Crowley found the scrutiny deeply disturbing, and his heartbeat began to thunder in his ears. _

_ “Well,” they said, smiling to reveal jagged fangs that certainly weren’t human. “We don’t get too many visitors. What brings you all the way out here?” _

_ Crowley didn’t dare answer. _

_ “Got a quiet one, do we? Or he doesn’t speak the language?” said the one on the left. He was sort of lumpy looking, with silty skin that gave the impression of a frog immersed in murk. Crowley couldn’t help but notice he had fangs too. Was this some sort of body modification cult? _

_ Crowley summoned all his courage and his many years of classical education to form a response. “I do speak Italian, thank you very much. Listen, I’m sure my family will pay for my ransom, please just let me contact them and they’ll cooperate with you. Whatever you want.” _

_ The one on the right laughed, the necklace at his throat a maddening mess of colors. It hurt to look at it. “We already have what we want. We have you.” _

_ Crowley was breathing hard, fighting every urge to flee. He knew there was nowhere to go. “What could you possibly want with me?” _

_ The frog one smiled, and it was the smile of a predator. “We want your blood.” _

_ “Blood?” Now Crowley definitely felt like he was missing something. “What-” _

_ “Wait, don’t drink him yet,” interrupted the short one. There was a tone of delighted realization in their voice. They leaned closer and wrapped their cold fingers around his jaw, tilting Crowley's face from side to side as if he was a curio being inspected for value. He strained, but their grip was inhumanly strong. _

_ “Such nice amber eyes, don’t you agree?’ they asked the other two. “Think he could be…?” _

_ “Perhaps, Bea,” said the one with the necklace. “But Lucy will have to check to be sure. Still...he’d be an asset to the coven if he turns out to be venomous. We need more, they’re so rare.” _

_ “Get your hands off of me,” Crowley spat.  _

_ Bea finally released their grip, looking satisfied. They looked over to the one with the necklace. “Ligur, keep him contained. I’m going to fetch Lucy. She needs to meet him. Such potential, and served on a silver platter.” _

_ Bea rose to their feet and began to walk away, but turned one last time to point at the frog one. “And Hastur, don’t you dare drink him. His value’s just spiked beyond meal status.” _

_ “Fine, fine,” grumbled Hastur as Bea stomped back up the cellar stairs, leaving Crowley alone with two monsters who were grinning at him with those sharp teeth. _

_ “Do you know what we are?” asked Ligur, toeing Crowley’s right leg with his shoe. Rather than bend to his level, the monster seemed to enjoy looking down on him. _

_ “Something unholy, I can tell that much,” Crowley said. Before, he’d been operating on bravado, but that was before they’d talked about him like some sort of blood sacrifice. They wanted to drink him…he felt like this was enough to feel fully terrified. _

_ He pulled his crucifix from his jacket pocket and thrust it forward. Hastur and Ligur stumbled back with hisses, but their hisses soon turned into laughter. _

_ “A brave one, eh?” sneered Hastur. “Pity those only work if you touch skin.” _

_ Ever the problem solver, Crowley immediately twirled it on its chain in a high-powered circle until it was rotating so fast it resembled a blade. He jumped to his feet with more strength than he’d realized he had left and charged at Ligur. Before he could wield his makeshift weapon, though, Hastur tackled him from behind with a crunch. _

_ “Oh, no you don’t, human,” he grunted, pushing Crowley’s face against the stone floor. He grabbed Crowley’s arms and bent them behind his back to prevent him from struggling. “Ligur, get that out of here.” _

_ A moment later, the crucifix was pried from his hand, probably with a handkerchief or something soft. _

_ “What are you?” growled Crowley from the floor. He could only see Ligur’s very well polished shoes. “What do you serve?” _

_ “We’re vampires,” explained Hastur with an unnerving, fervent joy. “We drink human blood and are sated with new life. And if Bea’s right about you, you’ll be joining our coven.” _

_ “Never,” he said, squirming in hopes of any chance he could escape his restraints, but it was fruitless. “I’ll never join a group that preys on the innocent.” _

_ “They all say that before the bite,” said Ligur casually. “Human principles mean nothing to us, and they’ll mean nothing to you soon enough. And, if Lucy decides not to keep you, we’ll just kill you instead, so either way, you shouldn’t worry.” _

_ Desperate, Crowley struggled against Hastur’s iron grip, but this only made the vampires laugh more, like he was some sort of entertaining theater show for their enjoyment. _

_ “Look at the little serpent, have you ever seen anyone squirm like that? How pathetic.” _

_ After some time, Crowley lost feeling in his wrists, and was only spared further numbness when Bea beckoned them out of the cellar. “Lucy’s ready for him.” _

_ Hastur and Ligur wrestled Crowley to his feet and frog-marched him up the stairs. At the top, they re-entered the blindingly lit room. Crowley hissed in pain, and by the time his eyes had adjusted, he’d been brought to a greenhouse attachment. It had floor to ceiling windows revealing the blackness of the night outside, and the smell of dirt and metal hung heavy on the air. A chair wound with ropes sat vacant as if waiting for him, and the sight of it made him redouble his efforts to wriggle free. _

_ “Get off of me,” he yelped, but the vampires were strong and quick. He was tied up and gagged within moments, and the three of them stepped back to appraise him. _

_ “Perfect,” grinned Bea. “I’ll send her in. I know she’ll want to do the honors and give him the bite herself.” _

_ “Mmmmm? Mmmmmm!” Crowley protested, but it was no use. _

_ Ligur sighed. “Wish we could, though.” _

_ “Nnnnnnnngggggg!” said Crowley. _

_ “Just because we’re not venomous doesn’t mean we don’t have our uses,” Bea admonished, their tone practiced, as if they’d had this conversation before. _

_ “Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Hastur. “Hurry it up. I’m thirsty. The sooner Lucy makes her decision, the sooner I can either drink him or go hunt. The Eastgates never provide enough people to drink.” _

_ Bea hushed him. “We should be thanking the Eastgates for helping us; don’t let them hear you complaining. We might pay them for services now, but they are still hunters. They could turn on us and kill us all tomorrow.” _

_ “Fine.” _

_ They left Crowley imprisoned in the greenhouse, the door slamming with finality behind him. _

_ This was bad. Very bad. Straining against eyes that were tearing up against his will, he scanned his surroundings for any means of escape. All he saw were roses planted in rows on either side of him. Useless. _

_ Before he could scrounge up any semblance of hope, the door opened again and a tall woman stepped through. She had olive skin, but it was rather chalky, as if she hadn’t seen the sun in years. Her dark brown curls were swirled into a chignon, and she wore the latest fashions in black and red. She would’ve been beautiful, except for her eyes. _

_ They were a deep, insidious green, with slit pupils. They held a cruelty that completely erased the charm of her complexion, and were so entirely inhuman that Crowley’s first instinct was to flinch back and start to struggle again. The monster came closer until she was an arm’s length away from him. _

_ “Hello, Crowley,” she said. Her voice was low and a little hypnotic, “My name is Lucy. This is my coven’s headquarters. My companions told me you might like to join us. Is this true?” _

_ Crowley frowned and uttered a string of curses that, filtered through his gag, were unintelligible. _

_ “I assumed as much. Well, it never hurts to ask, not that it makes any difference.” She smiled sweetly, and the hair on Crowley’s neck stood on end. _

_ “Bea was right, you’re a pretty one,” she said. “Very unusual eyes. Mine were like that once.” She walked around him once, those horrid eyes cataloguing everything. “Yes,” she finally said when she faced him again. She put her index finger to her pale lips and considered him. “Yes...I think you’re just what we need. Very well, then. Hold still, this might sting a bit.” _

_ Oh, thought Crowley. Oh no. _

_ He could do nothing, say nothing to fight back against this. But he resolved whatever these demons wanted, he’d never provide it. _

_ Of course, that was easier said than done. It was also far easier of a promise for a human to make. _

_ Because the moment Lucy leaned forward and sank her glistening fangs into Crowley’s throat, things got very, very complicated. _

* * *

Eastgate Castle, Present Day

The days at the castle following the excitement of the midnight sword battle were very quiet. Aziraphale was still healing, and his knee continued to give him trouble. He spent much of his time reclined somewhere, either watching Crowley obsessively winterize his rose garden or reading in his library. His mobile phone stayed silent with no new messages, so Aziraphale ended up just leaving it in his sock drawer.

They ate their meals together now, with some kind of wall between them finally breached after Crowley had rescued him from the Horsemen. They hadn’t really gotten around to talking about Crowley’s admission that vampires occasionally sent assassins to kill him, but given the secrets Aziraphale himself was sitting on, he was inclined to let it pass for now. They cooked and ate amid companionable conversation, and it...worked, somehow.

That being said, they still weren’t entirely comfortable around each other. Crowley tended to be somewhat mercurial, fluctuating between shockingly kind and a complete menace. They still battled over the curtains, and Crowley had taken to purposely vacuuming whenever he knew Aziraphale was trying to read anything in Latin, which, he’d already explained  _ at length,  _ needed complete silence.

And then, sometimes, Aziraphale would look up to find Crowley just...staring at him, looking conflicted. As if he’d been ordered to attack him, and was valiantly trying to resist the urge. But Aziraphale erred on the side of trust, so he said nothing.

The weather got steadily colder, until frost etched itself onto the windows and the rooms became drafty and uncomfortable.

One evening, Aziraphale could hardly leave his sanctuary of wool blankets in his room, loath to venture out into the rest of the frigid castle. So he lit a fire in the grate by his desk, and sat close to the hearth to glean every ounce of warmth.

It was delightful, and he may have taken a snooze or two. But eventually, he was pulled from his dozy state to notice Crowley standing in the doorway, peering curiously into the room.

“Oh! Hello. Don’t just stand there, you must be freezing,” Aziraphale offered, gesturing to the fire.

He still didn’t move. “This is your room,” he protested.

“I know, it has a fireplace, isn’t it lovely?”

“No,” Crowley said, clearing his throat. “I...er...can’t. This is  _ your  _ room.”

Aziraphale frowned, and then finally understood. “Oh,” he said. “You can’t-”

“Not without being invited,” Crowley mumbled, embarrassed.

“Crowley, you’re cordially invited to come join me by the fire and not freeze to death. Or, ah, undeath, as it were.”

Clearly he hadn’t been expecting this, because Crowley stumbled into the room, as if the invisible barrier he’d been leaning on had suddenly fallen away.

They sat watching the flames curl and twist in the fireplace for quite some time before Crowley muttered, “Thanks.”

“No trouble. Although, this brings up an interesting question. How did you get into my castle in the first place, if you need to be invited?”

Crowley chewed his lip, fangs glittering in the dim firelight. “Didn’t have to be invited.”

“You mean the place was empty?”

“I mean I was turned here. We can always return to the place where we began. You probably knew that already.”

“Here in the castle? There were other vampires in the castle that did this to you?” Aziraphale tried not to glance around in alarm. As if they’d still be here.

“Well, yeah, but ‘s not like I knew that back then. I was on the run; I’d shirked everything. University, networking, a wealthy family back in London...all of it. They sent me to seminary here in Italy, but I ducked out the back window and never looked back. Was looking for a hideout. Just a runaway punk, broke and hungry. You know. Young and idealistic and too brave for my own good. Saw the creepy castle, and thought, yeah, alright, spend the night here.”

“But how did  _ they _ get in?”

“They were invited,” Crowley said simply, and did not elaborate further.

Aziraphale gave this a sincere amount of thought. From what he knew about the lineage of castle ownership, this seemed...highly unlikely. He’d have to puzzle it out over a glass of wine at some point, but not now and not in front of Crowley.

“So they got you inside and...just...immediately…” Aziraphale curved his index and middle fingers in a pantomime of fangs.

Crowley looked uncomfortable. “Kind of. See, they only turned people they deemed  _ worthy _ . Not all vampires turn out well, you know. Some don’t take to the bite, they go a bit...off. And they only wanted to turn people who had a high chance of being venomous. Like me. I turned up on their doorstep and they didn’t waste much time seizing their opportunity.”

“And you  _ let  _ them?”

His face flashed with anger. “I didn’t have much choice.”

“I’m sorry, that was tactless.”

“‘S fine.”

“Erm. What...if you don’t mind me asking, how did they know you’d be venomous?”

“It’s my eyes. Before all this they were sort of an amber color. Apparently that’s the indicator.”

“So. You can make other vampires?”

“...Yeah.”

“Have you...ah, turned anyone else?”

There was a long pause, and Aziraphale was fairly certain Crowley wouldn’t answer him. He was pushing his luck with so many questions as it was.

So he was rather shocked when Crowley tapped his fingers on his armrests and said “Once. And I’m never doing it again.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale was infinitely curious about who it was, but restrained himself. He could tell this was difficult to discuss. “Does it...hurt? To be turned?”

He’d always wanted to know. Crowley was the first vampire he’d ever trusted enough to tell him anything close to the truth.

There was a long silence, and Crowley stoked the fire. He stared at the agitated flames and finally said, “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

Crowley shrugged but his expression remained pensive. “Eh, don’t be, was a long time ago. Can’t do anything about it now. Has its perks. An air of mystery. An ability to defend myself.”

“The villagers down there  _ do  _ seem awfully afraid of this place. I was handed tokens of protection left and right.”

This change in subject seemed to lighten his mood significantly, because Crowley grinned. “Oh, that. I had a couple rebellious years early on. Caused some trouble. The legends stuck around.”

Aziraphale’s attention snagged on the use of past tense. “You mean they’re not afraid of things you’ve done  _ recently _ ?” He found this rather hard to believe. “What about your, erm, victims?”

Crowley sighed. “I don’t, actually. Er, drink people. Anymore. Just cultivate the impression so people stay away. Keeps other vampires off my back, nobody thinks I’ve gone soft. Even worked on you for a while. Plus, well, it’s rather hard being ‘round people without, you know. Wanting to. ‘S better to avoid the temptation and stay away from it all.”

“But how do you survive, then? You _need_ blood.”

“Easy there, ‘m not gonna tell you all my secrets in one go.” He smiled a little, but then his expression became hardened and closed off again. “But if you ever tell  _ anyone  _ about this-”

“You’ll kill me?” Aziraphale asked primly.

For a second, Crowley looked like he might’ve been capable of doing so, but after his most recent confession, it wasn’t all that frightening. It only took a second for him to give up on acting threatening. His shoulders relaxed and he  _ laughed _ .

It was shockingly warm and joyful, for so cold and angular a person. It was the first time Aziraphale had heard him laugh in all the weeks they’d spent needling each other.

He rather liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also posted a cut scene from this chapter to my tumblr [here!](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com/post/633356445235200000/rose-and-thorn-bonus)  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Just a quick warning - this fic is tagged for vampire-typical violence, and this chapter is a big reason why. In addition, I'd also caution that there is a warning for some dissociative episodes and overall "Crowley not being in a good place" discussion this time. Not everyone who becomes a vampire takes it well, and Crowley's flashback is a darker one.
> 
> There are more detailed warnings spelled out in the end notes if you want to see them beforehand.

_ Eastgate Castle, 1870 _

_ Crowley came to the conclusion that the world was a cruel place. _

_ The sun melted his skin and scorched his eyes. He couldn’t get the taste of rust out of his mouth. His teeth were too sharp, and he cut his lips on them constantly. He was unnervingly conscious despite all logic. He should be dead. _

_ He very much would have preferred death.  _

_ Instead, he was now some feral creature, some twisted and angry demon with eyes like a snake. He hissed at anyone who approached. Not even intentionally. He just couldn’t help it.  _

_ He wanted to bite, rend, tear, drink, and lash out. All the time. _

_ And the people. The people… _

_ In Crowley’s animalistic, limited awareness, he had learned the Eastgates were his benefactors. Vampire hunters secretly hiring the vampire gang Crowley found himself part of for mysterious jobs.  _

_ The Eastgates fed him- _

_ -they fed him people. _

_ Crowley had, without choice, retreated far back from the well-educated, proper gentleman he was before all of this. The civil part of him lost a war with new instincts that demanded to be sated. He didn’t think about how many people had been brought before him, their heartbeats skittering like the legs of a frightened spider. He didn’t count how many times his teeth had punctured their skin and stolen their lifeblood. He was so far removed from what was happening it may as well be a story in a book.  _

_ He didn’t understand what he had become, so his brain decided that, for his own sanity, he could not care. _

_ Because he was venomous, Bea wouldn’t let him leave the humans alive. They were very clear about it. “If you don’t drain them all the way, they’ll just turn and we don’t need any more of us right now. We have our hands full with you.” _

_ Crowley wasn’t even sure if he could stop before draining someone all the way. He’d never tried. _

_ The first few days, though, before his first Feed, he attempted to resist the pull toward blood. They barricaded him in the cellar until he acquiesced to drink, mainly because he tore apart a rather nice four poster bed in the room he’d been granted, and they were concerned about him fashioning a stake from one of the broken wooden beams.  _

_ In the cellar, he crouched against the cold brick wall, huddling into his knees, unsure why he couldn’t feel the chill he expected from the drafty place. He was so hungry, it was as if nothing else mattered. And yet, he wanted to see how long he could last. _

_ He spread his hands on the dusty floor and something brushed against his palm. Before he could register what it was, there was a pain so hot and so concentrated that he gave a strangled cry and pulled his hand to his chest. He was so confused and delirious, he thought for a moment he’d been bitten by a snake, or burned by a flame. But when he held his throbbing palm up to his luminous eyes, he had a rapidly healing mark of a cross etched into the skin.  _

_ His crucifix. Of course. _

_ That moment was one of the last human agonies he truly felt for a long time. It was one of the last times in those first months at Eastgate where he was fully himself, aware of what he had lost, and distraught enough to cry over it. _

_ Eventually, the pain dissipated; Crowley’s brain had locked down that feeling of human trauma in favor of pacing the cellar perimeter like a predator, until he got so hungry he couldn’t stand it any longer. He rapped on the cellar door and asked to be let out, promising he’d accept the blood this time. When they presented him for his first Feed and told him to drink, he did, and later wished he could regret how much he liked it. _

_ From then on, Crowley was a shell of himself. Nobody in the coven dared get close to him without blood on hand, because he snarled and hissed and fought back against any unwelcome approach. And now he was strong enough to do damage. _

_ Lucy was the only exception to Crowley’s indiscriminate viciousness, but it was not out of goodwill. Crowley quickly learned that it was futile to attack her because she was the one who’d turned him. According to the old laws, vampires were incapable of personally killing their sires or their mates, even if they tried. _

_ Despite knowing that it was a waste of energy, and having learned that his blood cravings might be worse because of it, Crowley tried often. _

_ Lucy nevertheless treated him with the utmost civility, perhaps because Crowley’s venomous status made him less expendable. He had the vague sense that he was taking too long to concede and adhere to the coven’s expectations. If he wasn’t valuable, they’d probably have staked him by now and started fresh with some other poor sap. _

_ But eventually, Lucy brought up the greenhouse, and it changed everything. _

_ In mere days, Crowley had his own key to the glass enclosure, and free reign to care for the plants within, with the caveat that he not destroy anything. He’d had some experience with botany at seminary, a fact Lucy had managed to worm out of him in one of his more lucid moments. _

_ “I’d like you to tend to the indoor garden, then,” she said. “It’ll give you something to focus on. Something to control and devote your hours to. In time, I think you’ll come back to yourself, and then we can give you true missions worthy of your purpose.” _

_ Crowley took the key silently and made himself at home in the rows of soil beds and green foliage. When he was there, the coven left him alone. In the quiet, under the stars, he had time to think. He acquainted himself with the various plants, most of which were poisonous - aconite, windflower, hogweed, even moonseed. He was surprised at the selection, although if he could deduce the coven’s purpose, it was likely these were used by the vampires to aid in assassinations and contracted killings ordered by the Eastgates. _

_ Crowley was still so far below caring at that point that it didn’t really matter to him what they were used for. His limited scope only included getting the blood he needed and nurturing his plants.  _

_ In time though, and in keeping with Lucy’s prediction, that changed. _

_ He grew to adore the roses, and as he became more and more enchanted with them, some of his old self was disinterred from where it had been buried below soil, guilt, and gore.  _

_ He wasn’t quite sure why it was the roses that did it, at first. He was now extremely sensitive to sound and smell, and something about the roses just...appealed to him. This went beyond the ordinary soft scent of roses - there was an underlying aroma that reminded him strongly of blood, and the feral parts of him recognized the roses as kin, somehow. _

_ He never asked anyone why the roses smelled the way they did. And it would take him several months to discover from a passing Eastgate servant that the roses were occasionally fed with blood collected from the local abattoir.  _

_ The night of that particular revelation, something in his brain clicked back into place, and Crowley - the true Crowley, the one he’d been before - put one hand on the metaphorical steering wheel. He felt sane enough to wonder, for the first time, if maybe there was another way. What if he didn’t have to feed on people? _

_ What was done was done. He was a vampire now; he was, well, evil, if what the stories said were true. And he had no reason to believe that they weren’t. Yet.  _

_ He still needed blood, but maybe the roses held the answer for him. He lay down on the rough sod floor of the greenhouse and looked up at the stars. Without his heartbeat, the world felt strangely quiet and off-kilter. He didn’t want to focus on that. Instead, he tried to feel the life from the Earth below him, the residual heat from the day-warmed ground, the whispers of growth from the roses. It was faint, but life was there. _

_ He might be dead, but maybe this wasn’t the  _ end _. _

_ He’d study the roses. He’d study the slaughterhouse blood. And if it was the answer, he’d escape the coven and set off on his own. It was a bare-bones plan, but if it helped him keep some semblance of his former self instead of the monstrous version he’d been over the past few weeks, it would be enough. _

* * *

Eastgate Castle, Present Day

The mystery of the coffeemaker was solved the following evening.

When Aziraphale entered the kitchen to cook what, on his new nocturnal schedule, was now breakfast, he nearly crashed into Crowley, who was carrying a bag of...blood meal, of all things.

He started. “Aziraphale, you’re uh, up early.”

“Oh, hello. Gardening, were you?”

Crowley froze, looking guilty. “Yeah. Gardening. Outside. The, uh, roses. Yeah.”

With a frown, he realized Crowley was not wearing shoes.

“Barefoot?”

“Er, yeah.” He set the bag of blood meal down on the kitchen counter. “I’ll just get out of your hair, then.”

He was halfway out of the kitchen before Aziraphale called him back. “You really are a terrible liar. What’s this about?” He pointed to the bag. “You can’t just leave this in the kitchen.”

Crowley looked like he wanted to evaporate. Be anywhere but here. “Gardening.”

“No you’re not. The roses are clear on the other side of the castle. You’re not even covered in soil.”

“But-”

“Crowley.”

“‘S not any of your business.”

“If we’re going to continue with this arrangement, I rather think it’s important to establish you’re not killing people to drain in secret while fooling me into thinking you’re harmless. I’d sleep much better at night if I knew you weren’t a murderer.”

“I did save your life,” Crowley argued. “Would a murderer do that? Could’ve just drained you, saved a lot of trouble. Bet your blood would be delicious.”

“And I’m very grateful you didn’t drink me, but that doesn’t answer the question of  _ how _ you get blood. Especially without killing anyone. Won’t you tell me?”

Crowley sighed.

“Come now, Crowley. It’ll only serve to make me think better of you.”

He made a wobbly noise as if he disagreed with this statement. “It’s pretty…”

“Gross?” Aziraphale ventured. “As if draining humans isn’t?”

He looked offended at this. “I’m not gross! I was going to say  _ embarrassing _ .”

Aziraphale crossed his arms, refusing to budge. 

Finally, Crowley blew out a breath and resignedly rolled his head back with a groan. “Ugh, fine.” He walked back over and picked up the bag of blood meal. “This is it.”

This was rather anticlimactic. “You...eat blood meal?”

“Not exactly. Watch.”

Crowley walked over to the grimy coffee maker, and Aziraphale realized what he was doing immediately. He observed as Crowley added a papery filter to the little compartment, and adjusted the coffee pot so it was aligned. He took out a tablespoon and scooped the blood meal into the compartment, filled a measuring cup with water, and poured it into the tank.

With grudging finality, he shut the lids, pressed a few buttons, and rolled up the bag of blood meal again. Under Aziraphale’s watchful gaze, he washed the spoon thoroughly.

“Satisfied? Can we move on please?” he asked, taking a mug down from the cupboard. They listened to the machine percolate for a few seconds. A few drops of dark red liquid began to drip into the pot. 

Above the gurgling noises, Aziraphale finally said, “My dear boy, that’s utterly ingenious.”

“You don’t - you don’t think it’s dumb?”

“Never, Crowley. How on earth did you devise this? Is it...well, is it enough for you? As a substitute?”

“Blood’s blood,” Crowley shrugged. “‘M not picky. Some are, but they’re the hipster snobs that get books inspired by ‘em. It’s stupid.”

“And you just...drink it? Like coffee?”

“Yeah.” He hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms, looking uncomfortable.

“Thank you for showing me. For trusting me. It was rather...nice of you.”

Crowley’s head snapped up. In a moment, he had gripped Aziraphale by his lapels and pushed him against the refrigerator door. “Let’s be clear here, I’m not nice, I’ve never  _ been _ nice. And if you ever tell anyone about this, it’ll be the last thing you do. I may try not to kill for blood anymore, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t do that to you. Tread carefully.”

The coffee maker beeped, cheerfully unaware of the intense discussion it had interrupted.

Crowley let go, stormed over to the coffee maker, and poured his mug. He was out of the kitchen before Aziraphale could move. When he finally did push himself off from the refrigerator, he realized that not only had Crowley not  _ hurt _ him in the slightest, his gentleness required control that must have taken decades for a vampire as strong as him to master.

He had trouble with cracking eggs, they’d seen that already. But people...Crowley knew how to avoid hurting people. He even  _ healed  _ them, if Aziraphale’s Spider-Man bandage had anything to say about it.

He raised a hand to his lapels, and could still feel the coolness that had settled there from Crowley’s fingertips. The fabric wasn’t even wrinkled. It was a marvel.

Controlled gentleness - the power to do harm and the choice  _ not _ to.That was rather something Aziraphale could get behind. 

He left the room, searching for Crowley, and after a few minutes of searching all the empty rooms, he was found lurking in an old armchair in the corner of Aziraphale’s makeshift library. With his back to the wall and a shelf against one side, Crowley seemed to be taking no chances on vulnerability. He held his steaming mug in one hand and a book propped up in the other.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he announced when Aziraphale announced his presence.

“I know. But I figured, if you’re willing, I could trade a secret for the one you’ve shared with me.”

Crowley lowered the book very slowly. “Why?”

“To promote mutual trust. It’s occurred to me that we don’t...know each other all that well, and as someone who now owes you a significant debt for saving my life, I’m keen to close the gap.”

Those yellow eyes just stared at him. A distant wood beam creaked in the ensuing pause. “What secrets could you possibly have?”

Aziraphale huffed bitterly. “You’d be surprised.”

“What, are you going to tell me that  _ sometimes _ you  _ don’t _ wear a bow tie?” - here, Crowley dramatically put a hand to his forehead for the full effect - “The scandal! Please. Nothing you could say would surprise me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he protested. His eyes flicked guiltily to his sword, which was now displayed near one of the bookshelves now that he didn’t have to hide it from Crowley. “Do you want to know or not?”

In answer, Crowley closed the book in one deft motion, his eyes never straying from Aziraphale’s face. “I’m listening.”

“Well.” Where to begin? He contemplated in silence. The old house creaked again, a couple cracks and pops in the pipes, no doubt.

Aziraphale sighed. Best get on with this. “In short, I was attacked by a few vampires last year. That’s how I know...what I know. They abducted me, and I was a hostage for long enough to observe them. I fought my way out, of course, but I haven’t been the same since. I was sent here to, er, recuperate.”

Crowley looked like someone had sprayed him with a plant mister. “You  _ fought your way out _ ?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “They were hardly well trained.”

Apparently this made the explanation even less clear, because Crowley looked completely mind-boggled. He kept shaking his head. “Okay, I take it back; you’ve certainly surprised me. Look, I don’t want you to feel offended by this but, um, there’s literally no way that’s possible. Like, just one of us could dispatch a human in seconds; even the effort I’m expending to keep you alive right now is substantial. So you fighting off multiple vampires at once is im-”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence though, because at that moment, three things happened simultaneously:

Three figures charged into the room, Aziraphale planted his hands on Crowley’s bony chest and shoved him to the floor, and all the lights in the library went out. 

* * *

With the curtains shut, they were plunged into a deep darkness, and while Crowley could still see, he knew Aziraphale could not. From his position on the floor, he saw Aziraphale’s polished shoes approaching the door, and he could hear the heavy breathing of the intruders. More vampire stooges sent to dispatch him, it seemed. 

Crowley broke off a leg from the armchair he had just vacated. Satisfied with the sharpness of the fracture, he rose from the floor with a mind to end this quickly. Before anyone else hurt Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” came a sing-song call to his right. “Your number’s up.” 

He fixed his eyes on the hulking vampire stalking toward him with a wickedly sharp blade. It was probably soaked in garlic - just as good as a stake through the heart when aimed right. He liked his heart garlic-free, thanks. 

Crowley stalked forward, aware that there was some sort of scuffle happening behind him and in a hurry to rush into that fray to protect his friend. But first things first. His lips curled into a snarl, baring his fangs, and he brandished his makeshift stake. The vampire lashed out, and Crowley evaded a strike just in time. But he wasn’t so lucky the next time - the blade grazed his forearm and he hissed at the sting of garlic. The wound wasn’t deep, but the toxins would spread. He redoubled his efforts to take the vampire down, and was about to deal the killing blow when the vampire suddenly emitted an awful, keening noise and promptly dissolved into dust. 

In his place, longer obscured by the now-vanquished vampire, stood Aziraphale.

This, however, was not an Aziraphale Crowley had ever seen before. This version was an avenging angel. He was holding his sword, the very blade engulfed in what could only be described as holy flames. They burned bright and hot in helixes of blue and red, and Crowley felt his skin itch just standing this close to it. He had only ever seen a flaming sword once before - in the righteous hands of Elijah Eastgate. 

Horror blossomed in his chest, but it was eclipsed by genuine surprise.

The fire illuminated the face of his friend, but it was tinged with shadow and a hardness that hadn’t been there before. And his eyes...his eyes were a blazing blue, the same color as the hottest parts of the flaming sword. They had an unearthly glow, and there was no recognition in them.

With a quick glance, Crowley realized the scuffle he’d overheard was Aziraphale taking out the other two vampires, because two more piles of dust sat on the old wooden floor. How on earth had he managed that? Crowley was fast and strong, but somehow he’d been beaten to the punch.

He turned back to face Aziraphale, only to find that his friend was now almost nose to nose with him, those awful, glowing eyes boring into him with something like hatred. The sword was so close to Crowley’s skin that he felt it begin to scald. “Whoa, Aziraphale, hey, that’s not very...uh, sporting-”

He backed up quickly as the swordsman advanced, knocking over a table and a couple footstools, until he felt the cold wood of a bookshelf obstruct his escape. Cornered and feeling  _ very  _ confused, he watched as Aziraphale bore down on him, raising the blade as if to strike.

“Wait, stop, it’s  _ me _ ! I’m not going to hurt you-”

In the moment before Crowley expected to feel the kiss of heat and dissolve into dust, he unthinkingly put his hands out and grasped at Aziraphale’s soft lapels in the hope it would stave off his execution.

“Aziraphale!”

He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow, but it never came. He opened his eyes to find he was still clutching at the soft, warm fabric, and that he was not a pile of ash. 

Aziraphale’s eyes seemed to flicker once, before he shuddered violently and wrenched himself away. He stumbled back to the center of the library, and with movements that looked like two people fighting for control of Aziraphale’s motions, he hacked one of his armchairs to pieces with the sword. Then, with a cry, he dropped the blade and put both hands to his face.

The flames went out instantly, but Crowley didn’t dare move. He was still on high alert, and - ugh - he was thirsty  _ again _ . His first mug had only just been emptied, but life-threatening stress tended to make him go through blood a lot faster. Plus, he had garlic coursing through his system, and that would have to be dealt with soon.

Too nervous to make it any further in his reasoning, he waited to see if Aziraphale was going to charge him again. But no, he just stood there in the middle of the room, shoulders heaving. It seemed like he might be weeping.

The dense armchair upholstery continued to smolder at his feet, and it was only the fear that a fire would damage Aziraphale’s precious books that made Crowley move from his spot. He grabbed a blanket from a nearby chaise and smothered the fire. Now that he was closer to Aziraphale, Crowley tried to make slow, gentle movements so as not to startle him.

Eventually, once the threat of danger seemed to have retreated, Crowley sagged to the floor, propping himself up against the charred remains of the chair. His arm was already beginning to throb.

He nudged Aziraphale’s heel with his leg. “Hey, are you okay?”

Aziraphale looked down, eyes wandering as if he couldn’t quite see. They were back to their normal, human blue, thankfully. 

“Crowley?”

“Down here, angel.”

Aziraphale dropped to the ground like his strings had been cut, and positioned himself so that his left leg was in line with Crowley’s right. There was a rustling sound, and then he brought out a torch from the pocket of his jacket. In the beam of light that spilled into the room, Crowley could see the tear tracks on his face.

“Crowley, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“Not really. But you looked like you wanted to. Do you remember -”

“Yes, I know what I tried to - what I almost...but I won’t, I refuse. You’re...protected. I won’t.”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale scrubbed a shaking hand over his face and peered earnestly into Crowley’s eyes. “I’d never have - I didn’t mean to…”

Aiming for levity, he said, “This certainly lends a lot more concrete evidence to your earlier statement about taking on three vampires on your own. How’d you do it then?”

In answer, Aziraphale handed him the torch. He loosened his bow tie and then unbuttoned his collar. From the movement of his shoulders, Crowley could see he was breathing hard. He looked tired but also...embarrassed?

“Well, as I was saying, before we were so rudely interrupted,” Aziraphale said, pulling aside his collar to reveal two prick mark scars along the side of his neck. “I said they were rather inexperienced and non-venomous. But I was still in danger. I fought back with barely enough blood in my veins to stay alive.”

Crowley mouthed words but nothing came out. 

“A near-death experience like that,” Aziraphale went on, “I think it...triggered something in me. A ferocity, beyond what normal hunters experience. Once I get going it’s...very difficult to stop. I killed all the vampires holding me captive, rampaged across two towns until my brother found me and got me to come back to my senses. I had a bit of a breakdown after that. See, while many might see my, ah, condition as an asset, I have no interest in being a killing machine. I’ve given up that life, no matter how much it doggedly attempts to bring me back to the fold. I can’t be that person anymore. I’m sorry you had to see me like that. Truly, Crowley. I am.”

Crowley had a feeling he was going to need to sit with this answer for a bit, but his brain was starting to fog, and in his limited time, a more pressing concern decided to make itself known. He found himself asking softly, “Why do you have the Eastgate’s sword?”

Aziraphale tilted his head like a confused owl. “This is Eastgate Castle.”

“Yeah, but you brought that sword with you, didn’t you? Your er, therapist told you to use it?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “and I own Eastgate castle. And this sword.”

“But  _ why _ ?” Perhaps Crowley was being irregularly thick - it was probably the garlic addling his brain - but this still didn’t make any sense to him.

With the air of someone required to admit a secret they weren’t ready to share, Aziraphale let the words pour out. “Because I’m an Eastgate, Crowley. I’m Aziraphale Eastgate, the youngest in a long line of-”

“-vampire hunters,” Crowley slurred weakly, glad he was already on the floor so he could pass out with a little more class. “Yeah, I know who they are.”

He couldn’t hear the response to this though, because that was the moment the garlic overtook him. He slumped to the floor, and his final realization before everything went black was that he probably should have mentioned his wound to Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:  
> -vampires draining humans  
> -deaths of vampire victims  
> -dissociative episodes  
> -depression  
> -one brief mention of suicide ideation  
> -crisis of faith  
> -vampire hunter violence


End file.
